2013.10.03 - The Darkness at Gulick
There are two sides to the borough of Brooklyn, NY. Tourists, transplants, and the trust fund babies tend to gravitate toward the shiny, gentrified Italianete structures that pepper neighborhoods like Greenpoint, Williamsburg, even Bushwick. However, there is a darker side of Brooklyn, that which is inhabited by the working poor, the homeless, and the addicted. The name 'Odame' and a series of numbers, spotted in places across the globe. There weren't many who could put together what it meant, but for one man, the message was very personal. Very easy to decipher. 1522 Gulick Alley. The three-story flat is about as run down as it can be, without being closed and boarded up by the city. Fortunately for the addicts who call it their 'home', Gulick Alley is about as off the grid as it could be. Sandwiched between two major avenues in an area that is surprisingly lacking in crime, it's the perfect place for addicts to labor on in their lengthy, deadly binges. It's 3:00am. A lone MTA bus rolls up Flushing Ave., occupied by two plus the bus driver. From a small fourth-floor window in a hostel above, a dark-skinned man wearing a hood and a skull cap is perched in the darkness of the room beyond, only the whites of his eyes and the burning cherry of a cigarette suggesting that he is even there. The window itself is nothing extraordinary... Except that it sports a direct line of sight to the front door of 1522 Gulick Alley. This part of Brooklyn is no place for a nice girl to be walking alone at three in the morning. Then again, the young woman slouching along in the direction of 1522 Gulick Alley doesn't look all that much like a nice girl. Short, very red hair is spiked up in a punky style, and her dead-looking eyes are surrounded by rather too much black eyeliner. The leather jacket her hands are stuffed into is accessorised by rows of sharp metal spikes that run across each shoulder and down each arm, and beneath it she wears a tight-fitting black tee shirt. A short, pleated skirt in bold black and red checks, teamed with black tights and heavy boots in scuffed black leather completes her outfit. She doesn't seem in any particular hurry, and doesn't seem to pay much attention to her surroundings, keeping her shoulders hunched and her gaze mostly on the sidewalk in front of her. Appearances can be deceptive, of course, for while Rachel Summers isn't scanning her surroundings with her eyes, the same cannot be said for her mind. Her telepathic gifts are alight, scanning for minds in the vicinity, alert for any unusual scrutiny that's coming her way - other than that from the fourth floor of the hostel across the street. She's expecting that. Reaching the run-down flat, the redhead's gaze finally rises, and she makes a play of looking up and down the street before her hands come out of her jacket pockets. One holds a compact spray can, and with a hiss she begins writing across the front of the building, the letters large and stylishly applied in electric blue paint: O D A M E The Alley at Gulick is perhaps a bit less populated than Kwabena would remember it-- in the nights it's taken for the 'message' to be delivered, and for Shift to concoct his plan to spring the perceived trap, no shortage of squatters and junkies have left the tenement to seek... well, less ominous surroundings. The third floor, Rachel would quickly surmise, is all but empty of touchable minds-- though there is -something- up there. Alien, distant, absent. Oily and slick, like grease through the fingers.. complete with the nasty residue if one pokes too heartily. Down on the street, an old, dark-skinned man hunches over a walking stick, seemingly quietly ministering to a gathered group of semi-coherent junkies gathered around a small campsite just beyond the flophouse. He quiets even before Rachel starts painting, his attention drawn more fully once the word on the building is half-formed. "Odame's place... was upstairs." That voice is deep, at once quiet and booming-- accented not unlike Shift's own, for that matter. The mind behind it is clear enough on the surface. A sentry, a guide, his instructions here are simple. Any threat he poses is tinged in inner wariness, rather than hostility. One crooked finger extends upwards, to the third floor. Meanwhile, in that hostel across the street, there is but the quietest of noises, most likely blotted out by the passing of cars on damp pavement and the sounds of the massive city beyond. However, in that unlit hostel room high above, the man who rested there is gone, his clothing having fallen in a heap to the floor. Replaced by tendrils of living, black smoke, Shift begins to feed himself out of the window, sneaking along its edges and drifting just within the edge of shadows cast in contrast by the streetlamps below. The X-Gene being a mysterious and scientifically wondrous thing itself, Kwabena maintains consciousness while in the form of living smoke. The sounds of the city reverberate his molecules, letting him perceive the deep voice of the man below as he gathers himself into a thinly spread cloud veiled against the evening sky. However, his consciousness remains aware, waiting in expectation for the telepathic messages that Rachel is sure to deliver. In the hostel where he once sat, the cigarette slowly loses its flame, his clothing fluttering a bit as a gust of wind blows through the open window. There's no change to the artistry with which the redhead applies the letters when her mind brushes against whatever is waiting above her. There's only the slightest of pauses. Keeping her reaction that muted isn't easy, though. Rachel's touched many minds, human and mutant, from the most honest and pure to the filthy and depraved. But she's never encountered anything quite like what's waiting upstairs. She withdraws her probe, whilst keeping a light telepathic scan on her surroundings. In case the presence above is sensitive to her talents, she'd rather not tip whatever it is off too early if she can help it. Instead, she reaches out to the increasingly familiar mind of Kwabena. << I've got something. >> She tells him, the almost cheerful tone in her voice when they'd discussed this little adventure earlier now entirely absent from her mental voice. << But I don't know what I've got. I'm going to... >> Whatever Rachel was going to do, she's interrupted by the carrying voice of the old man. For a couple of seconds she responds not at all, finishing off the 'E' with a final flourish before pocketing the spray can. Only then does she half turn toward the source of the voice, reaching out with her mind again and finding no imminent threat. "Then I'm in the right place." Rachel says, cocky a little brusque, keeping character for the time being. Reaching out a hand, she pushes on the door, a small application of telekinesis dealing with any locks or catches, and slips inside the building. There's a man passed out, snoring loudly, in the base of the rickety old stairwell. A single, flickering light at the intersection with the first floor. Onwards and upwards, the stairs are dark, but traversible. Even if Rachel didn't have her ways, there's some activity-- illicit, to be explicit-- within the first and second floors, and some ambient illumination drifts to cast the winding wooden stairs into shadowy relief. Whatever's up there, it's not hard to realize it's aware of Rachel's approach despite her care-- or simply expecting her. The third floor is almost nothing but sealed doors, sturdy wooden ones. They almost don't belong in this building, locking down every unit on the flophouse's apex hallways, except one. It goes without saying that the singular unit with the door slightly ajar, the unit lit by a dim purple glow that flickers like flame and touches the hallway, is the one where Shift often slept.. during another life. Ever the silent observer, Shift simply hovers in the air, following the slight ebb and flow as the wind demands it. The subtle shifting of how the tendrils of smoke flow, their thickness and what have you, are how he maintains his general position in the air above. It's taken plenty of practice to maintain this form, and while he can hear what's happening below, he's not about to risk letting his eyes re-form. He is, in a manner of speaking, blind. |"Something?"| is fired back in thought form, trusting that Rachel will be able to receive the answered thoughts with her own power. |"Be careful."| It goes without saying, of course, that he is concerned. He likes to know what is going on, and beyond that, he is not entirely pleased with putting Rachel in this position. However, she offered to help, and this was the most sensible way to go about it. Doesn't mean he has to like it, at all. Soon enough, however, he begins to receive a mental image of what Rachel is seeing. There is some comfort in having his sight essentially restored, though it is altogether disconcerting to be seeing with someone else's eyes, and it's an experience that he's not yet witnessed through his other telepathic friends. It nearly causes him to lose his focus (and his gaseous form). Existentially clenching his teeth, he gathers up his concern for Rachel--which is, in essence, fear, the very thing that drives this manner of his mutation--and harnesses it to maintain his form. |"That is the place where I used to stay,"| he offers through their telepathic bond. |"But I do not remember that light."| With a subtle push against the air behind him, that nigh invisible cloud of black smoke begins floating toward the fourth floor of 1522 Gulick Alley. Let's maintain a safe distnace, but there's no need to be too far away... The dim light is just about enough for Rachel to see where she's going - but just to be certain she's not missing anything in the semi-darkness, she reaches out with her telekinesis, invisible, intangible fingers running across the walls, floor, and ceiling to give her a mental picture of her surroundings. It's something she wouldn't be too keen on doing with her real fingers, in a place like this, but telekinesis doesn't pick up dirt, no matter how dubious its origin. Before Rachel moves any further in, she fires off a swift thought towards Shift. << I will. >> It's simple and slightly grim. If she'd ever thought this was going to be fun, she doesn't now. Stepping lightly over the snoring man - after Rachel runs a quick telepathic scan to make sure he IS unconscious, this whole place has enough of a horror movie vibe that she's half expecting to find him waiting to grab her leg - Rachel starts up the stairs. Her booted feet are oddly quiet on the treads, but then she did just feel out the loose ones. The first and second floors get a cursory mental inspection, but no more. Rachel has no real interest in the doings of the denizens of this place unless they relate to Kwabena or herself, and she passes by without pausing. Her steps slow as she reaches the final landing, and as she steps off the last stair she stops completely. The closest of the doors get a telekinetic touch, and Rachel smiles darkly to herself as they prove as tough as they look. If she wanted to pass through, it'd take more than a wooden door to stop her, but why should she be breaking doors down when one is open so invitingly ahead? Except that 'ahead' is exactly where she felt that disturbing presence from before. Rachel touches Kwabena's thoughts, linking them so that he can glimpse the third floor through her eyes. The sealed doors, and the open one, leaking purple light. << Come into my parlour...? >> Rachel's mental voice is grimly amused, resigned, and hiding an undercurrent of nervousness. << I knew you'd say that. >> She replies to him, the grim resignation in her tone becoming stronger as she makes a decision. << Let's see what we're supposed to see. >> Rachel steps forward, her telepathic defences coming up automatically as she moves toward the purple glow. A moment later, a light telekinetic shield springs up around her. It's only a tripwire, too weak to manifest visually, but it makes her feel a little more secure as she pushes open the door. The flophouse room beyond was hastily vacated. Someone's stash rests amidst the tattered remnants of what was once a bedroll, there's a .38 on the counter, not expansive numbers of odds and ends, for obvious reasons... but enough to indicate someone fled, or was taken from here, in a hell of a hurry. That mystical, alien force, the expansive void almost too deep to probe is stronger indeed beyond the doorframe, within that cramped apartment. The trap, one would think, would be sprung. Yet, nothing assails Rachel, and her passage within? Also unabated; not that that makes it less unnerving. The apartment's sole overhead light burns with purple-blue fire, casting flickering unearthly flame that renders the room in clear, dimly reaching hues. One wall shifts, swirls, the shadows of the room solidifying and flowing into a vortex on that stained architecture, the rough outline of a face visible within. It then becomes a vague, stylized reflection of Rachel's progress into the room-- and the overwhelming sentiment gathered from that blackness would be a moment of stark familiarity. Then, like shifting ink, the feminine visage is back, "You... are not he." She murmurs in a cryptically neutral, darkly melodic whisper. A second voice, barely audible, undertones the ** You. ** A caustic, hissing counterpoint to the smooth tones. The place brings back any number of ugly memories. There were weeks where Kwabena had spent binging on methamphetamine, starving himself, hiding in a corner while his mutation ran amok as victim of the narcotics. There were the lonely, depressing nights where he wrapped a belt around his arm, or injected hot dope into his foot. There were the derelicts, those ironically lesser in the African's mind, whose prone bodies he robbed blindly to pay for his next hit. There were the fights, brutal fights, which often ended with Kwabena the victor if only due to the advantages his X-Gene provided. Remembering what Rachel had told him in Genosha, he bottles those ugly memories up and casts them aside. They aren't important right now. They were another life. They would serve as nothing more than a distraction, something most likely intended to do just that--distract him. |"Knock, knock, who's there?"| Kwabena's mental bounce-back is equally grim, laced with an ironically light sarcasm. Yet, an undercurrent of determination lies within. Neither he nor Rachel have any idea what is going on here, but they've been around the block enough to smell the quintessential bad vibes that are inherent with situations like this. Biding his time, the black cloud hovers in the middle of Gulick Alley, spread thin and still invisible to the naked eye. There he watches, frozen to the spot, as he sees everything playing out through Rachel's eyes. A shiver would have traveled down his spine, had the bones and nerves not sublimated into smoke. |"What the hell?"| is flashed through his mental field, the words stricken by utter confusion. In all of his travels, as an exile, as a junkie, as a mercenary or an X-Man, he has never come across anything like this before. If Rachel hadn't invited Kwabena along behind her eyes, she might have waited outside that door a lot longer before pushing it open. The flickering purple light is ominous enough, but the sense of otherness, of /wrongness/, that's pushing against her telepathic shields only gets more oppressive the closer she comes to the source. Maybe that's why she did it. Much harder to back down when someone's looking over your shoulder. Linking with Kwabena's not without its own distractions, though. Like something glimpsed from the corner of her eye, Kwabena's memories flicker, half-seen, half blocked by the other X-Man. He might be untrained, but he's doing a decent enough job, though it's still imperfect. She almost speaks to him with her mind, but then the flickering images tail away to nothing. Instead, Rachel feels his focus, and it bolsters her own. Focused or not, nothing can really prepare Rachel for what she encounters within the room. As she's been trained, her eyes - and other senses - run across the room, taking in the .38 and the other debris, but despite that training, nothing can stop her eyes being drawn to that wall, and the face within the impossible vortex. Almost worse than that is the sense of familiarity that bounces back from the instinctive probe she throws toward the madness. Rachel's breath catches and her eyes widen before she controls herself, but it's Kwabena's own mental exclamation that grounds her once more. << Good, it's really there. I thought /I/ was on something for a minute. >> She's rattled but as the merged, sibilant voice issues toward her, she eases down from her tense stance, folding her arms and shifting her weight to one hip. Not nearly as casual as she's trying to appear. "I'm not any kind of 'he'." She confirms. "But I'll have to do. What do you want with him?" "You are.. concerned for him?" The face takes on more definition, burning green embers taking on the role of eyes as a distinctly feminine form steps as if out of the wall itself, her body comprised entirely of shadow which drifts about and behind her like tendrils of mist. There's an almost primal curiousity to the query, the logical process. It wasn't who she was told to expect, here, but it wasn't outside the realm of possibility, either. Someone else is already more certain. There was no one else in the crashpad a moment ago-- Rachel's proficient enough to be sure of that several times over. But suddenly, she is not alone. The plain, wooden chair sitting with two mismatched partners around a knife-scarred table is occupied by a man in a finely tailored, pitch black suit. Pants, jacket, shining Italian leather shoes. The contrast is the stark white shirt, two buttons unbuttoned, and the vivid red handkerchief tucked into the jacket's breast pocket. Jackie seemingly /arrives/ with one foot kicked out, teetering the chair back and forth on two legs as intent eyes study the redhead. "He wouldn't a' sent you if he didn't trust you a hell of a lot." Jackie observes, thoughtfully nonchalant. Of course, there's always that ever-niggling possibility that his judgement is awry. "Well. He better've sent ya." Estacado grins wolfishly, appending simply.. "Man must be hiding from some heavy hitters." |"It doesn't seem like anything Magneto could pull off."| That mental observation presents two changes to this little field trip. One, they don't necessarily have to worry about this interfering with the Genosha operation, or the possibility that Magneto is behind this. Two? This presents an unstable, uncontrolled element. Something neither of them may necessarily be prepared for. Still, as much as Kwabena is tempted to coil his cloud, burst through that crack beneath the window frame and come to stand by Rachel's side? He's got to bide his time. His lack of presence may help to pull more truth than otherwise. The presence that steps out of that wall nearly causes him to break his role and burst through anyway. When the mental projection of Rachel's eyes gives him knowledge of their new arrival, those tendrils of smoke can't help but begin to move, swirling about each other with a pent up desire to act that is tempered only by the relentless appreciation of additional knowledge. While the puzzle still remains incomprehensible, more pieces are steadily being added to the pile. |"One might say that."| It's a stray thought, but it's intended for Rachel to hear. Sarcasm drips from the mental presence. Jackie is right though, he does trust her a hell of a lot, which is precisely why he isn't feeding lines to her right this moment. The Shift-cloud continues to bide its time. Rachel doesn't reply to Kwabena's observation in words, but the sense that flows back to him across the link she's forged between them is definitely along the lines of 'no kidding'. This is definitely not the kind of show she could imagine Magneto putting on - but then she'd always been more certain than Kwabena that Magneto /wasn't/ to blame, and she'd wanted this dealt with so that it didn't distract Kwabena from the big game. Sometimes Rachel should be careful what she wishes for. Green eyes meet green eyes as Rachel meets the apparition's gaze without flinching, even though hers don't burn like fire. At least not yet. "Yes." It's more direct than Rachel had intended to be, but something about the equally direct nature of the question prompts her reply. "Enough to want to know who's after him, and why." She's asked the question twice, now, and given one answer of her own. Her gaze stays on the figure of shadow, challenging the specter to answer. Rachel's stand-off with... whatever just stepped out of the wall is utterly disrupted by the arrival of another player, who to all her more than human senses simply wasn't there a moment before. Ice slides down her spine at the sound of the other presence's voice, and she takes a swift step back, opening what little distance she can from the others and pivoting around so that she can face them both. "Maybe." She keeps her voice light. "Or maybe he just wanted to get rid of me?" She suggests, cocking her head a little in a questioning gesture that she leaves hanging for just a moment. Almost inviting them to get that over with... if that's their intention. Assuming it's not, at least immediately, Rachel eases down a little once more, though the tension doesn't entirely leave her this time. "But let's assume that you're right. You sent a message, and I'm how it's been answered." Rachel actually smirks a bit at the man in the chair. "What now?" There's a moment of silence that hangs after Rachel's explanation, and Jackie taps the tips of the fingertips of one hand against the other's. There's a yellowish glimmer behind his eyes that sparks subtly in the dimly lit room, contrasting the darker hues of the lighting. "He dealt himself in to a dangerous game. One that I believe he's probably still pursuin', one way or the other. One that has a lot of other players, seen an' unseen." As explanations go, it's not anything approaching showing all the cards in his hand, but Estacado is nonetheless frank and direct. The shadowy woman fades back into the walls of the room, returning vigil outwards as Jackie holds counsel. "He backin' you up, or send someone else? I was hoping to talk to Odame, but if you're -his- cavalry..." That grin returns, too comfortable around someone he -obviously- knows is eight kinds of deadly. Jackie kicks out of the seat, and wanders a poised and unhurried pace towards the far wall of the room, scratching at his chin. "... then maybe it's a good thing you're first in. I got some work that needs like minds." Patience is nearly fleeting, and it never was Kwabena's strong suit. The tendrils of smoke that hover in the air continue roiling amongst each other, fighting back temptation long enough for the mutant-turned-smoke to consider what is being brought into the light here. |"Dangerous game. Genosha? Merc jobs from not long ago? He's got connections. Dimarco Shields. Drug trafficker I took down a while ago. Knows the global narcotics trade."| Telepathic communication is a funny thing. Sometimes it comes in the manner of full, direct sentences. However, in this instance, the thoughts are fired openly in the manner of seconds as Kwabena pieces together pieces presented with those absent, openly for Rachel to observe and come to her own conclusions, be they similar or not. |"Is he trying to hire me for something?"| That thought comes as a sentence, more directed toward Rachel as a communication rather than observation, and it is laced with perplexity. Jackie's voice echoes in Kwabena's mind; 'I got some work that needs like minds'. In his old trade? That would be a job offer. |"Give and take. I'm coming inside."| Maybe it's impatience, perhaps it's a smart move. Could end up being utterly foolish, but if it's not a job offer, then it means Jackie is setting Rachel up for something that could be devilishly bad. The cloud roils into a ball, before shooting off toward the fourth floor window. A tiny object falls from within the clutches of smoke, not much larger than a thumbtack. When it strikes the pavement far below, it sends a transmission to a smartphone left inside the hostel across the street, which then sends a simple message off to a yet unrevealed party. Moments later, tendrils of smoke are flowing into the room containing Jackie and Rachel. It gives the two of them ample time to hold further conversation, but soon enough, the gas is taking the shape of a man, ever thickening, until the sound of displaced air replaces the smoke with the figure of Kwabena himself. The African is garbed in a costume of sorts, similar to his X-Men uniform while intentionally lacking in any designators or insignia. In this room, its gunmetal gray appears almost black, woven of unstable molecules that cling to his skin and are capable of transforming into various states of matter along with his body. It leaves all but his head covered, and carries with it a small number of fabrications that give it the appearance of being armored, which in some small degree is in fact the case. He doesn't speak a single word. He merely casts a look Rachel's way, before turning his mis-matched eyes of brown and silver upon Jackie Estacado, whom he scrutinizes without a single gesture of pleasantry. Rachel has a feeling that she and her words are being measured, and she doesn't move to break the silence and stillness. She's still trying to brazen it out, despite having no real idea what she's willingly walked into. She doesn't miss the flicker in the man's eyes, just as she doesn't believe his nonchalant pose makes him any less of a threat. Rachel does, however, allow a slight smile to curve her lips at the description of Shift's actions. "He's been known to get himself into trouble." Rachel allows. It's not flippancy for its own sake, just a slight counterpoint to the man's ominous non-explanation. And something to cover her while she realises that Kwabena has no more idea than she what this is all about. The departure of the as-yet unexplained apparition might be expected to reassure Rachel, but if anything it has the opposite effect. At least when she could see the other... being? She knew where it was, and what it was doing. Now she doesn't have that comfort. Rachel shifts a little in place, but that's all that betrays her unease. She keeps her eyes on the man as he continues, and looks about to answer him as an annoyed expression flits across her features and is swiftly gone. << I can handle this, stick to... >> Rachel fires the response back quickly, but she can feel that it's not quickly enough. Kwabena's coming in, and there's no way she's going to be able to convince him otherwise. As he reassembles himself, Rachel meets his gaze with a look of frustration that's smoothed away by the time she turns to face the far too confident man. "Looks like you got what you wanted." Rachel tells him, then steps back, propping herself against one of the more solid-looking walls and folding her arms once more. She keeps a watchful eye on both Kwabena and the other man. She might not like this play but she'll back it. There's an air of expectations fulfilled as Shift all but materializes in the room, himself, an echo of the appearance made by Jackie himself moments ago. No, Estacado doesn't seem surprised to find Odame overseeing this little investigation, a knowing smirk cast aside to Rachel as she moves, if irritably, to one side. The redhead is tossed a gentle salute, and for a moment, it seems like -she- might hold Estacado's attention more surely than the intense, and intensely paranoid (if rightly so) Ghanaian. Or maybe he's just giving Kwabena that moment to get his measure, given that he's already done what homework he could on the recast vigilante. Fair's fair... ish. "Something tells me neither one of you's a stranger to trouble." Jackie observes, slipping his thumbs into the pockets of his jacket and turning on one heel, wandering back between Shift and Rachel. They'd eventually have to turn to keep the shadowy man in view, for that matter. "I have to admit..." Jackie fishes a pack of smokes from his left pocket, and offers one to the others before lighting up himself-- then picking up as if the beats were never missed. "I was hopin' my little show would already have a line on the kind of bad that's got you lammin' it. Soon enough, I expect. Figure whatever help you need there's got to be more valuable than any asshole's currency, right about now..." Estacado takes a long drag off that cig, and puffs it out, wandering over towards the place's sole window, now. "But that's getting ahead of myself. Why don't you tell me what you're lookin' for, life and limb on the line. For what? ... Beyond the fuckin' rush." For as much a Kwabena is all but scouring Jackie with his eyes, trying to determine if he's a familiar person, the African is actually feeling quite apologetic. He could hear the frustration in his counterpart's telepathic tone. |"Sorry, Red. Sometimes I like to pull the trigger a little early. Keeps things fun."| There's a beat, as he glances her way with a half cocked eyebrow. |"Dig the hair."| Rotating somewhat, Kwabena reaches out to accept the cigarette. As much as he would certainly appreciate a smoke (his pack is back at the hostel amongst rumbled clothing), he instead decides to stick it behind his ear. He listens for a moment, letting Jackie get out what he must, providing an initially curt response with his heavily accented voice. "Old life." There's a moment where he's about to move on, before lifting a hand to gesture in a somewhat dismissive way while providing at least some explanation. "Amazing what you can dig out of dese bastahds when you need to. Kind of fun to turn it on dere heads, you know?" It's a casual response, dismissing any suggestion that he's in this for the dope. His slightly booted feet take a casual few steps, rotating a bit to maintain Jackie in his direct line of sight. It's fairly clear, given his attire, that he's not packing heat, or weapons of any kind. "No, let's get ahead of yourself," he debates, before injecting a bit of acid into his tone, paired with the narrowing of his eyes. "... da hell you get off, scrawling my name across half of de damn planet?" he asks. "Don't tell me you're trying to do me some favahs." Sure, there's a part of him that's pissed off about the whole dog and pony show. If there's one thing Kwabena dislikes more than anything, it's having his name thrown about like candy. That being said, such anger is surprisingly held in check, at least deep down inside. This little touch of hostility is simply another one of his moves, prodding at Jackie to see whether it ruffles his feathers. Like a doctor poking at his patient's leg. That's it. Rachel can /feel/ that they've just played into Jackie's hands, whether intentionally on the part of Kwabena or not. That just serves to ratchet up her unease another notch. The smirk she gets makes her narrow her eyes a bit, but it's more disgust with herself for being shoved aside than any particular annoyance with Jackie for rubbing salt into that wound. She'd probably nurse that grudge a little longer if not for the salute that she gets next. That makes her eyebrows rise a little. She's a little intrigued... until she remembers that anyone who so clearly knows what she is and what she can do that's taking her this lightly is either an idiot, or very, very dangerous. And she doesn't take Jackie for an idiot. Not when her constant, light telepathic scanning is telling her that /whatever/ was sharing the room with them has now spread throughout the building. She still doesn't want to probe too closely, but one conclusion is inescapable: They're surrounded. All of which may go some way to explaining why Kwabena's crack about her hair doesn't get him off the hook so easily. << You're meant to pull it on the bad guys, not /me/, Shift. >> Her tone is disgruntled, but this time she does at least keep her irritation off her face. And one hand does run automatically through her hair, adjusting the spiky style rather than ruining it. Dammit. The offered cigarette gets a shake of her head, her eyes sliding across to Kwabena to judge whether he's about to light up, but she stays where she is when she sees that's not imminent. She stays in the background as Shift steps forward to take the stage, she's not going to try competing with him. She does, however, offer him some unasked-for advice as he leads with aggression. << This isn't one of Isaac's crew. He knows we bite, and he's not worried. >> "You know where your name was scrawled?" Jackie inquires, arching one brow and chuckling, mostly to himself. He pries the window open with one hand and leans forward, peering out into the tight expanse between this building and the next for just a moment. "Sweatshops processing heroin. Exporters who pack little girls in containers next to heroin and arms. Tribal chieftans selling families that trust them into suicide runs for global cartels. The bosses of the men you hit when you turned your back on this shitheel life; a fucking shitload of them, Odame." Just with what's actually hit the news /Stateside/, that's a difficult claim to debate. "-You- know what people like that do. -She- knows." He may not know Rachel nearly as well as the Darkness seems to think -it- does, but Jackie's sure of a couple things. "Take it how you want, but I did the fuckin' -world- a favah." His New York laden Italian accent shifts just slightly on that single word, though it seems to be in amusement or appreciation rather than derision. The matter-of-fact, defiant, deliberate tone drops to a more convivial lilt as Estacado pushes away from the window and turns, "Relax. 66% of America doesn't fuckin' realize Odame -is- a name, and the rest of the clowns will forget it soon enough. Your friends know it ain't your style, an' your enemies?" Jackie smiles-- a tooth-filled, dangerous thing. "Well, at the very least you confuse the fuck out of them. Maybe scare some scumbags. An' make the bosses spend resources running you down." He lifts the cigarette, punctuating his statement in the first moments of the draw, in ample clouds of smoke, "When they ain't even running you down." Estacado laughs at that outright, losing a bit of smoke and coughing before he tries it again, raising his eyes to Shift directly, challenging and studying for himself at last. "You -are- in this to take out some trash, right?" No, Estacado never assumed Shift was in this for personal or chemical gain; if he were still high as shit, Kwabena would already be dead. |"I am pulling it on him,"| Kwabena defensively retorts, before pausing. |"I hope. ... I think."| There's nothing pretty about Jackie's exposition on how, exactly, heroin comes to the United States. Neither is there any debate coming from Kwabena. In fact, it was knowledge of this industry that drove him when he was making those hits. He needed information, he knew how to get it, and at the end of the day, the world is better off without those bastards around to get parole. It may not exactly have been Xavier's dream, but at the time, Kwabena judged it appropriate. Another glance is given toward Rachel. |"Not Isaac's crew,"| he agrees. |"I get the feeling he's his own crew. Not that it makes this any better."| "Dey pronounce it wrong, too," quips Kwabena in reference to his surname. "So, you did de world a favah," he agrees, backing down with his hostility somewhat. However, he's trying to avoid a debate related to his old life, and the way he's used his name as a tool in the past. He may be able to use it again, and it's arguably true that Jackie has actually done him a favor in that regard. "You're wrong," he allows, while lifting a hand to gesture Jackie's way. "I'm not in dis. I'm done. If dere is trash, let it sit. And if de bosses want to hunt me down?" He spreads his hands far and wide. "Let dem." A lot of good it might do them. Kwabena has no reason to fear knives or bullets, and thanks to Magneto, he's got less of a reason to fear more advanced weaponry. Finally, he closes the distance, getting himself closer to Jackie if such a thing is allowed. Meanwhile, a thought is battered toward Rachel. |"I don't know what I'm doing, Ray. But this guy is trying to play me. I need to get something out of him, and damnit, I do not want to ask you to rip it from his head... but I might have to."| "Listen, 'friend'... why don't you tell me what you are in dis for?" His eyes peer back and forth, looking into Estacado's greens as if trying to search beyond them for something Jackie is keeping secret. "You went to some great effaht to bring me here. Why?" Rachel doesn't respond to Shift's retort. She'll argue with him about his tactics later, assuming there IS a later. All she knows is that Jackie has what he wants, something Rachel's not quite able to fathom is all around them, and her only backup is standing next to her poking the owner of the trap they just walked into with a stick. No, she really doesn't want the distraction of arguing the point with Shift right now. Rachel's eyes narrow as Jackie holds forth on his handiwork. What he acted to stop isn't news to her - she's seen enough of it in Kwabena's mind without even looking to be under any illusions about how evil the trade is. But there is a difference, between her and him. She's not the model of an X-Man, probably never will be, but to take this much pride in such bloody handiwork seems twisted even to her. And then Jackie proves that her attempt at fading into the background hasn't been at all successful. Her eyes narrow again, her expression closing up. Yes, she does know what people like that do, and she has killed when she's had to. It's not those deaths that keep her awake at night. But this... this sounds like something else. "I know." Rachel agrees, keeping her tone flat. "Or close enough. But I never had as much fun as it sounds like you did." Rachel shoots a glance at Kwabena, then subsides. She's liking this less and less, but it's still his show for now. As Kwabena moves forward, Rachel's voice is swift to answer within his mind. << Tell me something I don't know. >> She takes a second to gather her thoughts and continues. << He's put a lot of work into getting you here, and I'm still not hearing a reason. I don't think it's just because he's a fan. >> Sarcasm is practically dripping from her telepathic voice as she says that. She's all business again a moment later. << It's your call. But if you pull THAT trigger, we'll have to fight our way out... and I'm not even sure what we're dealing with, here. >> There's no fear in her tone, but false bravado wouldn't serve them either. Rachel deepens the link between them for a moment, sharing her perception of the strange, dark entity coiled all around them, throughout the structure of the building. "Oh, yea, it's a barrel of laughs." Jackie's flippant facade drops to a scowl, with dry sarcasm dripping from his lips. And perhaps more than a touch of bitterness. "I'm /glad/ men like Dimarco Shields exist. I /love/ that they hire men so ignorant and coked up you can't convince but one in ten what they're doing is even /fucked/. That the world's full of every kind of wrongheaded shitbag ready to compromise everything for whatever he wants right fucking then." Teeth clench, then release, and Estacado turns to face Rachel more fully, "I'm -glad- every time honorless shitbags flood a playground with H." There's a certain palpable anger sparked from the bitter scars touched by the insinuations, and then just as suddenly, Estacado seems halfway to deflated, and turns away from the confrontation. If sardonically so. "Fine. I'm wrong. You're out." Jackie smirks outright at this, but deeper than that? He seems disappointed. Even if he -doesn't- believe it. "That's why your activities and survival worldwide are being concealed with a proactive hand CIA spooks don't usually rate. That's why you've got friends an' fans all over the world comin' to check out what's up just with a murmur of your name. A name that every passing associate wouldn't even -rate-." There's another little bark of laughter, Estacado enjoys this, and it's enjoyable on the ironic level, as well... given that he's responding to Shift apparently playing him. "So yea, you're letting the trash lie." Sarcasm is a practiced artform within the Franchetti Family. "That's why you're here, in high-tech ops gear, with a woman who apparently rates even higher on the scale than -your- accomplishments... which are ample, Mr. Odame. Not because your security and maybe ongoing operations are compromised by being visible in multiple locations worldwide, an' you want to focus enough firepower to rub out or flip anyone with the resources to do what I did if you don't like my reasons." No, Rachel's right-- Jackie's not an idiot. Most of the time. "If you'd spend less time on bullshit plays and more on what I'm sayin', you'd already get my angle. I need people who play the game on your level to put a certain kind of businessman... out. An' broker something better." No, it's not Xavier's dream-- but honor amongst thieves? That's a credo Estacado buys hook, line, and sinker. It's part of what's stirred up his /own/ hornet's nest of trouble, for years now. "You don't care 'bout that? You want to shut me up for knowin' too much, making too much noise? Feel free to take a fuckin' number, because if that line's not bullshit I've wasted my damn time bringing you here." And make no mistake, as Rachel confirms... that's exactly what Jackie did. In some corner of Kwabena's mind, he just knows that he's pissed Rachel off. The stubborn side of him says she'll just have to learn to deal with that. The other side? Might be offering up some kind of apology later. If there is a later. For the moment, he leans slightly to the side, watching the dialogue between Jackie and Rachel with an unpleasant expression. Her telepathic projections are certainly not lost, and are likely the cause of a deepening frown. He's got to fight hard not to close his eyes in a knee-jerk attempt to block out the shared perception. It's uncomfortable. It's unnatural to sense such things, and for a moment, he's not even sure he knows how to process it. Message received, regardless. Doesn't matter if they're dealing with a mutant, an alien, or something... else. The fact is, there's far too much of the unknown to risk pulling THAT proverbial trigger. When Jackie speaks of Shields, however, Kwabena's frown contorts into something of a wry grin. In a twisted way, he knows exactly how Jackie feels. Misdirected accusations. Anger leading to an absolute disrespect for the shitbags referenced, and the lives attached to them. Soon enough, however, the attention is directed back upon Kwabena. The smirk holds, though it doesn't reach his eyes. They remain ice cold. He looks down to the floor for a moment, reaching with his left hand to scratch the back of his bald head. During the space it takes, however, there's another silent communication taking place. |"This is all about a job. My old life. It's not too far behind me, and it's not something one lays to rest easily. Like roots digging deep into a poisoned earth. I may not like it, but there can be advantages to found in the shadows."| There is a pause in his thinking, during which he looks up to meet Jackie's look, even takes a couple of steps closer. |"I've done it before. With Scott's stamp of approval."| Because the world isn't as black and white as some of the X-Men want to believe. All of the bullshit plays seem left aside when Kwabena speaks up again with his own voice, directed at Jackie. "Numbah one, my security and ongoing opahrations have been compromised thanks to you. That doesn't sit well with me, undahstand? De way I see it now, you owe me something. But, I'm a nice guy if you're on de right end of de barrel, so, I'll settle for a name--a propah name, not any of dis 'Batman' bullshit--and an undahstanding dat I only do de jobs I want. Jobs I can agree with. Nobody muscles me into anything without consequences." Backing down a bit, Kwabena allows his smirk to grow, and it actually reaches into his eyes somewhat. "I couldn't give two shits about your reasons. You name de job, show me de reasons it eidah benefits me, or doesn't screw me ten ways from Sunday, and you might have your man." Rachel doesn't back down in the face of Jackie's anger. She hadn't expected him to like her comment, even though she'd been implying that he enjoys dealing with the problem a little too much, and not that he enjoys the existence of the problem itself. They've been on the back foot since they arrived, and Kwabena's aggressive approach hasn't rattled Jackie at all. It's useful to know he has buttons that can be pressed, as dangerous as pressing them might turn out to be... particularly as Rachel's finding it difficult not to snap back at the man when he confronts her, her temper already a bit frayed. Rachel realises she's got her teeth clenched tightly together as Jackie turns to Kwabena once more, and forces her jaw to relax, makes herself /listen/ to what's being said - which turns out to be oddly reassuring. Jackie knows too much about them, but he's still reaching. He doesn't know everything. So now it's just down to Kwabena to let him down - easy or hard - and for them to get out of this place. At least, that's what Rachel thought was about to happen. Scott's sanction for past missions in the shadows is a bit unsettling, but that's the past - Kwabena's done a good job of making Rachel believe that his past is just that - and they already have a mission in the present. But then Shift as good as offers to take whatever job Jackie is trying to sell him. Rachel's carefully controlled expression becomes one of shock and her eyes fix on the back of his head. << I'm going to assume this is another part of the plan you didn't tell me about, because I didn't come here to sign on as a killer for hire. >> The shock has gone from her expression, but she's not entirely able to keep her unhappiness from showing. Jackie has entire -panels- of buttons, some days. Of course, fearing for his life has rather stopped being one of them at least three or four 'deaths' back. "Wouldn't have it any other way." Estacado does note easily, though. "Nothin' we're not 100% on, nothin' whoever's involved doesn't believe -needs- to be done." There's murder-for-hire, and Jackie's done that, but this isn't about the money. Or the power. Taking care of the business end is a pragmatic chore, at the end of the day. Where others would crave the reach, much as the Darkness loathes it Jackie seems to approach filling the vacuum created for much more pragmatic reasons. Worse scumbags always step into that chaos, he knows it better than most. To his credit, Estacado doesn't even argue that he owes Shift for the inconvenience. "Remember, part of the play is to lure the folks huntin' you somewhere I can get a real good measure." He doesn't expect that to die on the vine just because Shift showed up before it went down, obviously. "Aside from that, I got plenty of resources of my own. You need a favor, I just need to know what an' at least part of why." The days of trusting any other man behind his finger on the button? Long over. "Feel free to dream big, long as you realize feedin' me this mercenary line doesn't increase your cred. I came to you 'cause the pieces say you can see the bigger picture. All the shit that's hurt or helped by the actions on the table. Doesn't take any special courage or conviction to be a selfish prick." Something Estacado seems intimately familiar with; and vaguely reminiscent as he considers it. "Look. Theatrics get past people's lies. Why it went down how it is, why you two are here the way you are now." Jackie settles back into the chair by the table and eyes Shift, then Rachel, evenly. "You play the game at a certain level an' you deal with people where uncertainty gets everyone you involve killed." It's somber, straight, and again-- too familiar, too near. "You got to be sure-- I'll get you a casefile or two." ... with the identifying details redacted so Shift can't compromise it if he opts out. "An' you can decide if you're as sure as me." There's no shortage of anxiety bottled all up behind Kwabena's poker face, and let's not even talk about how badly he wants to smoke that cigarette tucked behind his ear. Knowing, just knowing that Rachel's feathers are impossibly rustled isn't making this any easier. |"Nobody's signed on for anything,"| comes a reminding thought. |"If I don't find out how deep this rabbit hole goes, he'll be on my ass forever. Only way to end that? A bullet. I don't think either of us want to go down that road."| The smirk fades for a few moments, only to return when Jackie mentions his resources. "Yeah," he quips. "You got resources. Like making monstah's appear out of de walls. Tell me, do dey bite?" With slow foot falls, the African walks about until he's come upon Rachel's side, standing next to her and leaning just so in her direction. With one hand on his hip, the other gestures Rachel's way as he turns to glance at her. "Do-- do I strike you as a selfish prick?" He glances back toward Jackie while still asking of Rachel, "Or someone who really needs to increase his cred?" Eyes flash Rachel's way once more, filled with amusement, before he rights himself and takes a couple of steps back toward Jackie. He leans forward, hand splayed out upon the table while all other suggestions of amusement fade against a most severe expression. "You're smart. I'll acknowledge dat. I see your play, usin' my name even if I refuse to be paht of your game. So, you think I have some vendetta against de peopah I used to be involved with, and you think I'll help you accomplish... something... in regahd to dem." His eyes squint in a manner of studying, before the African shakes his head from side to side. "Whatevah it is you're up to? Makes it real hard for a man to go along with." Pushing himself upright, Kwabena walks back toward Rachel then, looking at her with a note of apology in the eye while his back is turned to Jackie. "Go ahead, den. Get your casefiles." He turns back around, eyebrows lifted. "Now, about dat name...?" |"I fucking hate this dance, Ray,"| he admits, trusting that the thought designed for her as it sits in the back of his mind will be noticed. |"You got any idea what this man can do, though? Any idea at all? Because I don't like unknown variables, and he's like... like a black void of unknown."| All the while that Jackie's talking, a good part of Rachel's attention is on Kwabena. The sales pitch is largely lost on her, but then it's not being made /to/ her - the whole situation has been designed to entrap Kwabena, and she's rather afraid it's working. << Just make sure you can find your way back to the daylight. >> Rachel's words are more subdued than they have been before, she doesn't like either of the options currently on the table, and a third one is presently eluding her. Rachel instinctively feels that she can answer one of Kwabena's questions, though - she's certain the monstrers in the wall DO bite. Her eyes track Shift for a few moments as he approaches her, and she actually manages a somewhat tense smirk at his little display of grandstanding. She shrugs. "You have your moments." She says in a level tone, before shrugging and adding lightly. "But I'm still here, right?" As if her presence is enough to answer both questions. As well as make a quiet point to Shift himself. As he moves away, Rachel's already resigned herself to what's coming next, so this time there is no look of shock to accompany Shift's apparent surrender to Jackie's wishes. She still looks far from pleased, though. She doesn't need to reach out to Shift's mind to make her thoughts plain. This is a distraction they can't afford, and it's dangerous - dangerous because whatever's in those files might just draw Shift in. There's no possibility that Rachel will miss ANY of Shift's thoughts that are intended for her. << That's the problem. >> She replies. << It's not him. Or... it's not /just/ him. What I showed you before? It's part of him but it's more than that. It's alive, and it's alien, and it's ancient. And somehow it knows me. >> There's a shift in Rachel's mental presence, as she makes a decision. << It's time I found out why. >> Before she can think better of it, Rachel reaches out telepathically to the other presence, the one that clothed itself in the shadows of a female form. The question is simple and direct, as she remembers from before. << Who are you? >> "Aw, now, you'll hurt her feelings." Jackie quips. "But yea. Somethin' like that." If he's inclined to give either Rachel or Kwabena a quick rundown of his limitations and capabilities, he doesn't jump right into it. "Let's just say I'm a tenacious guy." The grin is somewhat less predatory-- but only somewhat. It's the life he's been pulled back into, after all. "Don't need to impress me any more'n her." Jackie notes with a nod to the redhead, "An' people tend to make some bad assumptions about what I want to hear. You want your name to disappear? Already got that taken care of." Jackie's grin returns wider, he has to pause a moment to keep himself from laughing. It's not a show of bloodthirst, either: humor touches his face a moment as he covers his mouth with one hand, and quickly recovers his poise. "Only question is, which country or organization you want to bust the case wide open. An' whether you give a shit about talkin' to your old pal the smuggler kingpin first." Estacado can take or leave the guy, himself. The disinterest and disdain is palpable, at this point. He reaches into his jacket, slowly, smoothly, and removes a bound leather dossier thick as a technical manual, which is slid across the table towards Shift. It couldn't possibly have been concealed in that suit the whole time, one would tend to reason. "An' I'm Jackie. Estacado." Making telepathic contact with the Darkness? It's an interesting feat. Aside from the consciousness in the walls, which seems a sentience of its own, Jackie floats like a buouy on a vast ocean... or perhaps serves as its drainplug. Beyond that conduit it's like traversing the vastness of space in an instant, something not entirely unfamiliar to telepaths of Rachel's calibre, at the end of the day. But that space is otherworldly, alive, thousands... perhaps millions, billions, consciousness stretching seemingly forever into the void. There is a mind at the center of it, however, a will and entity alien and ancient, that feels Rachel's intrusion even as she makes it. ... and seems to welcome it. In the vast starfield in Marvel Girl's mind's eye, before she can focus on any one region or sentience, is focused for her. Green lights flicker closer, brighter, dark fires in a pattern not unlike the compound eyes of an insect, shimmering in space. ** The DaAarkness ** A deep, enthralling voice whispers, as if the name thrills it, the murmurs echoing off the caverns of Rachel's own mindspace-- a feeling Jackie knows all too well, but does not, in this moment, share. As she reaches out, it seeks to reach back, seductively-- to breathe on those cosmic embers, stoke the agitation and emotion in the mind and spirit touching its own, rile up the Phoenix's fiery wrath for whoever its wielder's passions choose to target. Who that is, or even if she decides to promptly incinerate Jackie Estacado, or decide she can obliterate Magneto? Not only does the Darkness not much care, it's /giddy/ with anticipation for the potential fireworks. A name. That's one small piece of the puzzle, if only something with which to reference the man by. With a slow nod of acknowledgement, Kwabena reaches to accept the portfolio. For the moment, however, he does not open it. He studies Jackie for a long moment, simply unable to keep the confusion from seeping through his practiced, yet imperfect poker face. The Phoenix, as an entity, is unknown to Kwabena Odame. What it can do, in some small part however, is. Deep down, he can honestly admit that he's frightened of what Jean Grey is capable of, and she's told him enough for him to understand that her power may not entirely be a part of her. The way Rachel telepathically speaks of Jackie's power? It sounds all too familiar. He's a smart man, and he's always suspected that there's something similar between the power that can be harnessed by both Rachel and her mother. Perhaps this is why Jean assigned them to work together? Because suddenly, it's Kwabena who feels that Rachel is about to make a big mistake. |"Alive?"| comes Kwabena's thoughts in an almost immediate echo. |"Ancient? Knows... Wait a moment, Rachel, don't!"| He turns, perhaps a touch too fast, and has to fight hard against the instinct to grab Rachel and drag her out of the room. Instead, he keeps the portfolio tucked away beneath his arm, and with his back turned to Jackie, shoots Rachel an absolutely unfiltered look of warning. Too late. Shift's voice in her mind is a fading whisper as she releases the link with him she'd been maintaining and asks that short, simple question. Her physical senses grow dim, the room around her becoming shadowy and insubstantial, only the mind of Shift within it retaining any definition, and even that light is drowned out by what Rachel touches, a candle against the inferno of a galaxy of stars. It's breathtaking and terrifying, and Rachel, still just Rachel, allows herself to drift closer, enthralled despite herself. She needs to know what this is, needs to understand the presence, as if anything as small as herself could fathom something so vast. But as the consciousness takes notice of her, something else takes notice of it. There's a shift as the attention of something that's been connected to Rachel since before she was born is drawn to this moment, and suddenly it's not just Rachel alone who's looking through the lens of her mind's eye. As the Darkness introduces itself, something moves Rachel to reply. Something that speaks through her with a voice that's hers, but not hers at all. << And I am Fire. >> It replies, and as the Darkness stretches out towards her, Rachel feels her wings unfurl, feels fire race through her blood, feels the power that comes with it, and the compulsion to /use/ it... And she's sitting on the grass of the Xavier Institute, listening to Jean Grey tell her of the dangers of the Phoenix. In the real world, Rachel jerks back, her head smacking off the wall she's leaning against, and she stumbles forward a step, just catching her balance before she trips. Her hands go out to the sides to steady her, and for a moment it looks like there's a heat haze around her arms. But then she looks up, and her green eyes are gone, replaced by the blank, white heat of a blast furnace. "Enough." The voice is hers, but not, and the air in the room becomes heavy, as if a thunderstorm was approaching. But then Rachel blinks, and her eyes are green again. And wild, as they look toward Shift. "We need to leave. Now." She tells him, then her head snaps around to fix Jackie with a stare, golden flame flickering in her eyes. "You got what you wanted. Are you going to stop us?" There's something in her tone. Something that's not quite Rachel. Almost a hunger for him to say yes. The disappointment at Rachel's semblance of control is expressed in taunting of its Host. ** Jackie, you picked the wrong one. Took pawn over queen! ** It seems quite gleeful in this assessment, even as Estacado looks between the two referenced vigilantes.. and frowns deeply. Still, he's done what he came here to do-- Shift took the parcel, and there's enough information to make contact within that. As such, Jackie simply shakes his head. "Nope. Free country." Though exactly what set Rachel off is something he has only educated suspicions about. "We'll talk once you've had a chance to read shit over. And decided what you want from me." That debt thing Odame keeps harping on. Scrawl a guy's name on a few crime scenes... Jackie sits back in the chair and fishes out another smoke, apparently planning to remain, for the moment. Just what the room can do to contain him, well. That's another issue. Despite the Darkness' desire to test Rachel, and perhaps Jackie, he doesn't rise to the prodding or rise in energy, maintaining his composure with a steady swallow and even gaze. "Whatever you think, I'm trying to do a little good, here." The challenging interplay between The Darkness and The Phoenix remains invisible to Kwabena. What he does see is the fire in Rachel's eyes, and it's enough to finally quicken his pace. By the time he's reached her, the fire has been blinked from existence, but that certainly doesn't mean its gone. He turns to face Jackie for a moment, allowing the man to actually see the harrowed expression that has crept from his soul and onto his face. He looks the man over thoroughly, then clears his expression to a dull blankness that is altogether forced, however convincing it might have otherwise been. "You'll hear from me," he guarantees. "One way or de oddah." Because in deals like this, it's simply disrespectful to say 'no' with silence. Without wasting any more time, however, Kwabena spins about, taking Rachel by the arm with a firmness that isn't hostile, but certainly is commanding. "No complaints here," he murmurs to her, before making for the door with hastened steps. Category:Log